


The Peter Paradox

by Potrix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Bonding, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Fluff, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealous Sherlock, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1898766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock has never been good at sharing, so it’s really no wonder that things go a little awry when Mycroft decides to bring a friend home for Christmas.”</p>
<p>In which Sherlock is jealous and not amused, Mycroft has a mysterious ‘friend’, the Holmes parents are not doing a very good job and the author decided it was time for some Christmas fluff in July.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Peter Paradox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IBegToDreamAndDiffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/gifts), [starrysummernights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for the amazing [IBegToDreamAndDiffer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer) and [starrysummernights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights) who have written many of my favourite stories here on AO3 and are two overall incredible authors. I hope you'll like this little piece of Holmes brothers fluff =) 
> 
> The inspiration for this story was this [post](http://ibegto-dreamanddiffer.tumblr.com/image/90434756270) (spoilers, obviously) I came across on tumblr recently, although I changed a few things (increased the age difference between the Holmes brothers, for example) and took some liberties with others. 
> 
> They also don’t know that I did this, so, eh, sorry for being creepy. Carry on. Nothing to see here. Well, apart from the story. So, read that. And enjoy! 
> 
> English still isn’t my native language and you’re all still welcome to point out any errors and help me improve my (non-existent) writing skills.

**The Peter Paradox**

* * *

Sherlock stares at the young man exchanging pleasantries with Mummy and pulls his features into an annoyed scowl, clinging a bit harder to his brother when the intruder laughs and Mummy reaches out to pat his arm.

“I don’t like him,” the six-year-old announces with a huff, eyes roaming over the stranger with appraising scrutiny.

Mycroft, furthering Sherlock’s irritation, merely chuckles at the dramatic declaration. “You don’t even know him yet,” he points out and shifts the boy, settling him more comfortably on his hip.

Sherlock grunts and tucks his head under his brother’s chin, pressing his face into Mycroft’s neck to hide away out of sight.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Sherlock thinks angrily. Mycroft had been away at university ever since summer, never coming back to the estate for more than a weekend at a time. But he’d promised to be here for Christmas, two whole weeks to play and read and experiment like they used to do before this whole ridiculous studying away from home business.

Sherlock doesn’t understand what Mycroft needs to go to school for anyway. He’s smart already, certainly smarter than all the other dullards his age that Sherlock knows. Which, admittedly, aren’t that many, but still. Even Father says Mycroft is clever and Father almost never praises them, so it has to be true.

Besides, the library in the north wing is huge and filled with books, papers and scripts in at least a dozen languages on topics varying from botany to astrophysics, poetry, politics and economics. It’s all right there for the taking, yet Mycroft claims it’s not the same.

He wants to earn a degree and prove himself, get a boring job sitting behind a heavy desk somewhere, much like Father and Grand-Père and all the other Holmes men before them. Mycroft has a compulsive need to please, Sherlock knows, and it’s frustrating.

Just to think how much more time they’d have for all the really exciting things if Mycroft didn’t insist on his stupid studies and going back to Oxford after every visit!

And now he’s brought home a _friend_. They don’t have friends, Mycroft and Sherlock, they have each other and that’s enough. At least that’s what Sherlock always believed until the sudden and very unwelcome appearance of Peter.

“Why is he here?” Sherlock demands, the words mumbled petulantly against Mycroft’s skin.

Christmas is a time for family and Peter is most definitely not family. Not that Sherlock cares overly much if Father actually manages to tear himself away from work this year or if their grandparents remember to call or if Mummy gets strange again after drinking her sparkly drink.

The only factor of any importance is that Mycroft is here so they can have a sleepover and eat biscuits and wait for Father Christmas to show up. Sherlock is convinced he’ll manage to stay awake long enough this year. Six is much older and much more mature than five, after all.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs, carding his fingers through the boy’s messy curls, moving them until he’s gently cupping the back of his head. “I like Peter, he’s my friend, but that doesn’t mean I like you any less, all right? Him being here doesn’t change anything. So can you at least try to be nice? It would mean an awful lot to me if the two of you could manage to get along.”

Sherlock burrows a little closer and considers that. He doesn’t really want to have anything to do with Peter and the estate is big enough that it wouldn’t be a problem to stay out of sight until he leaves again. But Mycroft will want to spend time with his _friend_ and if Sherlock, in turn, wants to spend any time with his brother over the holidays, he’ll have to endure the cretin’s presence. In the end, it’s not a particularly hard decision.

“I can try,” he sniffs haughtily, pulling back just enough to show Mycroft his entirely unimpressed expression. “But I make no promises.”

Mycroft smiles, Sherlock’s lips mimicking the gesture completely without his permission, and presses a kiss to his forehead which has Sherlock making exaggerated gagging noises and twisting every which way in an attempt to escape the disgusting attack upon his person.

“That’s all I ask,” Mycroft laughs and throws the squirming boy over his shoulder, making him giggle and squeal. “Now, let’s get you clean and into something at least halfway decent for dinner.”

***

Having dinner in the actual dining room is excruciatingly boring.

Normally, Sherlock would seek out Cook or Nanny or any of the other staff once he gets hungry and demand that they make him a snack and some tea. Cook is his favourite, he lets him sit on the counter in the kitchen and tells him stories about growing up in Sicily with his thick, silly accent while he works and Sherlock eats. Sometimes Sherlock is even allowed to help; stirring sauces, measuring flour and sugar or pouring milk and oil. It reminds him of his experiments and Cook, when he told him, laughed and said that cooking was nothing but simple chemistry with a touch of magic.

But today Mummy insisted he join them for an official dinner because it would be rude not to show their guest proper hospitality.

Sherlock doesn’t quite get the point of it, it isn’t like they need or even really want him there, talking amongst themselves about things Sherlock either doesn’t understand or has absolutely no interest in. But no amount of whining, shouting and, when nothing else seemed to work, sniffling had made Mummy see reason.

He sullenly glares at the small burn mark in the wooden tabletop, listlessly pushing some potatoes around on his plate and deliberately ignoring the disgusting pile of steamed fennel. 

“-my chemistry professor has some rather fortunate connections and was nice enough to-“

Sherlock’s head snaps up at that. “You’re studying chemistry?” he blurts, the first time he’s spoken since the meal started and the very first thing he’s said to Peter in general.

“Darling, please don’t interrupt when someone else is speaking,” Mummy tsks absently, not looking at him and therefore missing the face he pulls at her.

“Apologies,” Sherlock grumbles, knowing and not caring in the slightest that he sounds entirely unapologetic.

Unlike Mummy, Peter turns toward him and he’s _smiling_. Sherlock narrows his eyes, suddenly feeling suspicious.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” Peter says and sets down his fork, his full attention on the boy now. “Yes, I’m a chemistry major. Third year, nearly done. Good riddance,” he laughs and winks, Mummy and Mycroft joining in with polite chuckling.

“Yes.” Sherlock nods, although he’s not sure what’s funny - which he _obviously_ isn’t going to broadcast in front of his family. “What kind of chemistry?”

Peter tilts his head, looking curious. “Organic chemistry for now. I haven’t decided on anything for my master’s yet.”

Sherlock can’t help his voice from raising or the excited expression from taking over his face. “I’ve started a new experiment just this morning-“

“Oh, darling,” Mummy interrupts, her tone disapproving and chiding. “Not at the table.”

“But it doesn’t involve any dead things _at all_ ,” Sherlock offers hopefully and then crosses his arms over his chest and starts glaring again when Mummy sternly shakes her head at him.

He can hear Peter shift uncomfortably in his seat and clear his throat before he speaks again. “Maybe you, eh, could show me later? I’d love to-“

“Don’t mind him, he’s only playing,” Mummy stops him with a dismissive wave of her hand and a highly inappropriate giggle, taking another sip of her drink.

Sherlock would point out the irony of her being the one doing the interrupting now, but he knows talking back will only earn him another chastisement so he stays quiet and angrily stabs at his potatoes, seething in silence.

Peter shoots a help-seeking glance at Mycroft who gives a minute shake of his head, his own face pinched, lips pursed tightly.

“Mycroft, darling,” Mummy goes on, apparently oblivious to the growing tension in the room. “The weather is so changeable today, why don’t you take your father’s car for your little excursion later?”

Sherlock freezes with a bite of trout hovering halfway between his plate and mouth. “You’re going out?” he demands, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of his voice. “What about Treasure Island?”

“Sherlock,” Mummy sighs impatiently, finally deeming him important, or annoying, enough to spare him a glance over the rim of her glass. “You’re perfectly capable of reading on your own.”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock snaps, fingers clenching around his cutlery. “But Mycroft always reads with me the first night he gets back. It’s tradition. We _always_ do it.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cuts in then, his eyes flickering from his brother to Mummy to Peter and back again. “The shops all close tomorrow for the holidays-“

“I don’t care!” Sherlock yells and pushes back his chair to stand, ignoring Mummy’s gasp and Mycroft’s wince in favour of glowering at Peter. “This is all your fault! I don’t want you here! You’re ruining everything!”

There is silence for exactly two heartbeats before Mummy gets up and walks around the table, giving Sherlock just about enough time to brace himself for the inevitable sting of her palm against his cheek.

“That is quite enough out of you,” she hisses, catching both his wrists in her hand and giving them a sharp tug. “You will apologise to your brother’s friend and then you will go to your room and stay there until someone comes to get you. Do you understand?”

Sherlock yanks himself free and runs from the room without another word, rubbing at his itching eyes and swallowing against the tight, burning sensation in his throat.

***

Mycroft comes by his room before he and Peter leave for the village, but Sherlock is lying buried under his blankets with his back turned stubbornly toward the door.

“We won’t be too long,” Mycroft offers charitably, hovering uncertainly. “I can read you a chapter or two when we get back, how about that?”

Sherlock doesn’t move and stays silent.

“Is he okay?” Peter asks hesitantly, causing Sherlock to jump up off the bed and fly across the room in one quick movement, blazing eyes fixed on the startled man.

“Go away!” he roars, slamming the door and turning the key in the lock for good measure.

He ignores Mycroft’s calls and whatever Peter is saying, crawling back into bed and pulling a pillow over his head to drown them out.

When bedtime arrives, there’s still no sign of Mycroft.

Stupid, interfering Peter.

***

Sherlock blatantly refuses to have breakfast with them the next morning, slinking into the kitchen shortly after six to cajole Cook into making him something and letting him eat in there with him.

Cook studies him for a long moment, then nods and lifts him up to sit on the bar while he boils eggs and fries bacon, singing and dancing across the room to grab ingredients and making Sherlock giggle despite his foul mood.

“Chi beddu stu cappiduzzu, chi beddu saporito,” Cook sings in that flat way of his, picking up an empty pot to use as a make-shift hat as he swings his hips and wiggles his bum, winking at the boy over his shoulder.

Sherlock grins at his antics but dutifully provides the next line. “Quannu mi l’ha mettiri?”

“Quannu mi fazz’u zitu,” Cook continues. ”Scinnu pi lu Cassuru, scinnu pi li Banneri. E tutti chi me ricuni-”

”Bongiorno cavaleri!” Sherlock finishes and laughs when Cook scoops him up to waltz them both over  
to the fridge for some orange juice.

***

It’s already mid-afternoon when Nanny finds him in the stables, tucked into the corner of an empty box with his notebook perched on his knees and Billy the stray, who tends to roam the old sheds in search for mice, curled up by his side.

Sherlock drags his feet and complains all the way back to the house, unable to imagine a single thing he wants to do less than attend Mummy’s annual Christmas Ball. She organises it herself every year on the twenty-third, inviting all the pretentious rich people from the surrounding villages so they can show off their new jewellery and boast about their new cars and pretend to like each other and get along for an evening even though Sherlock knows they talk badly about each other behind their backs.

But despite his protest, Sherlock finds himself standing between Mummy and Mycroft in the grand foyer to greet the new arrivals at eight sharp, dressed in dark slacks and a ridiculously stiff and scratchy white shirt.

“Stop fidgeting,” Mummy whispers, her falsely polite smile never wavering, and bats his hand away from his too tight bowtie.

“It’s strangling me,” Sherlock insists, causing Mummy to glance down at him with a disapproving frown.

“Go on, then,” she sighs and gives him a little shove in the direction of the ball room.

Sherlock lets out a relieved breath and quickly makes his way inside, tugging the offending piece of fabric around his neck loose as he goes. He gives the few children he knows from school a wide berth but can feel their eyes on him, following his progress across the room.

They’re despicable and cruel and Sherlock has absolutely no desire to associate with them outside of class, so he finds a table in a remote corner, takes out the journal he smuggled in under his jacket and settles in for a night of mind-melting boredom.

***

“Hey, freak.”

Sherlock gives no outward reaction of having heard the taunt and keeps his eyes fixed on the article about photosynthesis until the journal is ripped out of his hands. He purses his lips and watches a drop of blood trail down his finger from the brand new paper cut before finally raising his head.

Michael and his gang of brainless baboons have gathered around his table, effectively hiding whatever is about to happen, and Sherlock has a fairly good idea as to what that is, from the rest of the assembled crowd.

Lovely. Just lovely.

“I’d like that back,” Sherlock says with feigned calm while his heart is very nearly beating out of his chest. “I sincerely doubt you would understand any of it.”

That earns him a whack over the back of the head with his own magazine and a round of immature snickering. Sherlock grits his teeth in a futile attempt at not letting on how close to tears he is which isn’t working all that well, going by Michael’s satisfied smirk. 

“What’s that, Holmes? No more clever words?” Michael sneers, shoving at his shoulder and almost sending him sprawling to the floor. “Are you scared, you little coward?”

Sherlock defiantly lifts his chin, ignoring his sweaty hands and laboured breathing. “Do you honestly believe your so-called friends, who only spend time with you because all your parents are members in the same country club, think you’re cool for picking on someone three years your junior and physically weaker? Does the lashing out help with your feelings of guilt for being at least partly at fault for your parent’s divorce by being a bully and causing them so much stress and grief that they grew apart until they couldn’t see any way to fix their marriage anymore and decided to go their separate ways? Has it ever occurred to you that-“

The rest of his sentence is lost when Michael’s fist connects with the side of his head, momentarily blurring Sherlock’s vision and making him sway in his seat. When he manages to focus his eyes again, Michael looks livid, his round face an interesting shade of prune.

“How dare you-“

“What’s going on back here?”

Michael’s sidekicks abandon him the moment they hear someone else approaching while the boy himself whirls around, clearly shocked at being caught out, and then immediately runs after them.

Sherlock, for his part, wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole to spare him the humiliation of having been found by Peter, of all people.

“Are you all right?” Peter asks and crouches down in front of Sherlock’s chair, his expression open and worried. He reaches out a hand to touch the probably already forming bump on the boy’s temple, but Sherlock jerks his head away, blinking furiously against the embarrassing wetness in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he spits, turning away and reopening his journal.

Peter, being the moron Sherlock always suspected he is, doesn’t recognise the dismissal for what it is and instead takes the seat next to him. “What happened?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and turns a page, making the movement as loud and annoying as possible.

“We missed you today, you know,” Peter says after a while.

Sherlock snorts. “No, you didn’t.”

“Can I maybe decide that for myself?” Peter quips and Sherlock sighs, realising the man won’t go away until he gets whatever he came here for. He sets down his journal to scowl at him. “Your brother feels terrible about what happened yesterday.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls his feet up onto the chair, hugging his knees to his chest. “Well, he should.”

“We were on our way back when the storm surprised us. There was so much snow, I could hardly see my own feet. We had to wait at a gas station until after midnight for it to clear up.”

It’s tempting to accept this explanation, to stop being angry with Mycroft for something he apparently had no say in. But Sherlock isn’t in a very forgivable mood after dinner yesterday and the stupid clothes and the bowtie and then getting in a fight with Michael, on top of everything else.

“Hey,” Peter says, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezing, waiting for him to meet his gaze before he goes on. “You realise that your brother loves you very much, don’t you? He talks about you all the time, he’s incredibly proud of you.”

Rendered a bit speechless by the unexpected gentleness of Peter’s tone and the honesty in his voice, all Sherlock manages is a jerky nod. 

“So, do you want to tell me about that experiment of yours?”

“You don’t need to pretend to be interested,” Sherlock snaps, feeling raw and vulnerable and strangely out of sorts after talking about his brother’s _feelings_ for him with a near stranger.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Peter shrugs and smiles again, like he did the evening before. Sherlock doesn’t have a clue as to why he does that and he’s not entirely sure how to feel about it. “But I’d love to hear about it.”

They sit together in silence after that, Peter’s hand stroking up and down Sherlock’s back while Sherlock tries to figure out the man’s motives.

“The pond froze over for the first time yesterday morning,” he begins after several minutes, risking a glance up at Peter who’s still smiling and waves an encouraging hand for him to go on. “I took ice samples from different areas of the pond and let them melt in order to see what sort of organic residues were left behind and if the amount and variety of them differed depending on where I took the samples from.”

“And what did you find?”

“Well,” Sherlock beams and launches into an elaborate speech about his findings, the different kinds of fish and frogs inhabiting the pond, the fact that his children’s microscope is utterly inadequate at doing its job and how Mycroft slipped and fell into the water when they were catching tadpoles last summer and then sulked for an entire week because he’d ruined his favourite pair of sneakers.

And Peter, much to Sherlock’s amazement, listens and throws in the odd question, makes suggestions and gives advice and nearly doubles over laughing at the image of a dripping wet Mycroft.

They’re still grinning at each other when Mycroft himself walks over, raising a questioning eyebrow at their flushed faces and silly expressions. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” both Sherlock and Peter say at the exact same moment, then look at each other and break out into another round of giggles.

“Childish,” Mycroft scolds, though Sherlock can see his lips twitching with suppressed amusement. “Mummy sent me to take you upstairs and get you ready for bed. And yes,” he adds before Sherlock can ask. “I’ll stay and read with you.”

Sherlock says a quick goodbye to Peter, blushing a little when the man ruffles his curls and smiles at him yet again. He waits until they’re in the private part of the mansion, but the moment they step into their wing, he reaches for Mycroft and lets himself be carried the rest of the way up to his room.

Mycroft takes off his jacket and shoes and goes to fetch the book while Sherlock changes into his pyjamas and brushes his teeth. Then they settle on the bed, Mycroft leaning against the headboard with Sherlock cuddled close and snugly against his side, and read until Sherlock’s lids grow heavy and it’s a more and more of a struggle to open them again each time.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Mycroft asks as he stretches to place the book on the bedside table before lying down properly and pulling Sherlock close and the blankets over the both of them.

“It was dull,” Sherlock yawns and buries his face in Mycroft’s neck, giving a small, satisfied hum.”But it could have been worse.” After a moment of consideration he adds, “And Peter isn’t entirely bad.”

He feels more than hears Mycroft’s quiet laughter where he’s pressed against his brother’s chest. “I’m glad to hear that. Go to sleep,” he says, brushing his lips over the top of Sherlock’s head.

“I love you, Mikey,” Sherlock mumbles, already half asleep and only just catching Mycroft’s answering, “You too, Lockie.”

***

Sherlock, as per his usual setting, wakes shortly after dawn and feels a pang of disappointment at finding Mycroft gone.

He would have liked to have some extra time with his brother before starting the day, but Mycroft, being the good, responsible son that he is, probably went back to the ball to see off the guests.

After thoroughly stretching his sleep-heavy limbs back into wakefulness, Sherlock climbs out of bed, dons his dressing gown to keep out the chill and pads across the hall to Mycroft’s room. His knocking, however, stays unanswered and trying the handle proves fruitless.

Not about to give up, Sherlock runs back to his own room and wrenches open the door to their shared balcony. He shivers at the resulting gush of wind, but ventures out into the cold and over to Mycroft’s window where, much to his frustration, the blinds are drawn shut.

There is a faint light, though, most likely the lamp on Mycroft’s desk, so Sherlock heaves himself up onto the sill to get a closer look. All he sees is a pair of legs covered in dark blond hair, Peter then, standing in front of the bed and one of Mycroft’s hands dangling over the edge of the mattress before it shoots out to grab at Peter’s knee and yank him closer.

Peter gives a surprised laugh as he topples over and Mycroft chuckles in response, but then they roll to the far side of the bed and out of sight.

“What are you doing out here?” comes Nanny’s shrill voice from the open door, having Sherlock roll his eyes at her exaggerated concern. “Get back inside before you catch your death, come on!”

Nanny bundles him up in a thick afghan and shoos him down to the kitchen where Cook is already waiting with a warm cup of tea, ready to share the newest gossip about the worst of the ball’s attendees, careful to strictly keep the cursing to Italian as if Sherlock doesn’t know exactly what ‘merda’, ‘cazzo’ and ‘fanculo’ mean and as if Cook doesn’t know exactly that Sherlock knows.

***

Sherlock finds Mycroft and Peter in the drawing room later, sitting close together on one of the smaller sofas. 

“Why didn’t you open the door when I came by earlier?” he demands as he squeezes himself between the two men, resting his head on Mycroft’s thigh to be able to look up at him while depositing his feet in Peter’s lap.

He frowns when both of them grimace and quickly shift to cross their legs which seems highly suspicious. “What were you doing just now?”

“Talking,” Mycroft offers coolly, his face expressionless.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “About what?”

“Our courses.”

“Then why is your face all flushed and sweaty?”

“It was a very heated discussion,” Peter throws in, something in his voice not quite right, and Mycroft snorts rather inelegantly.

Sherlock stares at Peter now, taking in his rumpled shirt and dishevelled hair, watches him fidget with one cuff and trying hard not to laugh. “You are behaving extremely odd,” he informs them, turning back to his brother. 

“Was there anything specific you wanted?” Mycroft sighs, but starts running his fingers through Sherlock’s still sleep-messy hair, so Sherlock knows he isn’t as annoyed as he pretends to be.

Sherlock sprawls a bit more and groans dramatically. “I’m bored.”

Which is how they find themselves wearing a frankly ridiculous amount of clothes half an hour later, strolling across the fields toward the old, abandoned hunter’s high seat.

Sherlock is running around excitedly, rounding back every now and again to complain about Mycroft and Peter’s pace and point out that they wouldn’t keep brushing their hands and shoulders together if they didn’t walk so obstructively close together which only makes them giggle and Sherlock roll his eyes at them.

***

Sherlock is collecting bark from a dying tree when one of the staff hurries over to them to inform Mycroft that Father rang and insisted Mycroft return his call as soon as possible. Probably something dull and business-related, Sherlock knows and ignores the conversation.

They’ve been outside for barely an hour, there’s so much more to do and explore and Sherlock has no idea when he’ll be able to come to the forest again. He isn’t allowed to go on his own, he has to stay where he can see the mansion at all times, and Nanny usually takes him to the village when they go for walks.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft begins hesitantly and his expression is apologetic when Sherlock looks over at him. “I’m sorry, but-“

“Yes, I know,” the boy interrupts waspishly, ripping at another loose piece of bark with much more force than strictly necessary. “We have to go back right this instant or else Father is going to be angry and _no_ , we can’t have that, of course.”

Mycroft crosses his arms over his chest. “Sherlock-“

“How about,” Peter pipes up before the brothers can engage in a full blown squabble, “Mycroft heads back and Sherlock and I stay a bit longer? I could use another few minutes to clear my head and Sherlock could finish taking his samples?” He fully turns to the boy at that. “What else did you say you needed? Pine needles?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, torn between delight at the prospect of a prolonged outing and dread at being left alone with Peter. “And moss, if we can find some with all the snow. Some branches, too.”

Peter looks back at Mycroft and asks, “Well?”

Mycroft’s face does something strange as he watches Peter, going all _soft_ somehow. Sherlock has never seen it do that before and wrinkles his nose at the unfamiliarity of the gesture.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” Mycroft addresses the six-year-old after a moment.

Sherlock bites his lip. He definitely doesn’t want to go back inside just yet, but he doesn’t know Peter who always smiles and pats Sherlock’s back and seems to be interested in the things Sherlock tells him. Not many adults are genuine in their interactions with Sherlock, he discovered long ago that they indulge him sometimes without actually caring. Most likely to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Sherlock?” Peter ventures carefully and comes over to place a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “How about it?”

“Okay,” Sherlock says after another moment of consideration and can’t help but smile back when Peter grins down at him. “Okay.”

Mycroft leaves with the servant after readjusting Sherlock’s hat and scarf, briefly squeezing Peter’s arm and promising to have hot chocolate ready for when the two of them get back.

“So,” Peter says after they’ve waved Mycroft off, taking Sherlock’s already half-full and quite heavy backpack and swinging it over his own shoulder. “Lead on.”

They make good progress and find most of what Sherlock hoped to get. Peter even discovers an abandoned bird’s nest and gets it down for Sherlock when the boy can’t reach high enough.

As they walk, Peter tells funny stories about life at uni, leaving Sherlock in stitches after a recollection of how he almost got caught sneaking around the dormitory to see Mycroft after curfew and had to hide in a hall closet which, unfortunately, could only be opened from the outside.

Which suddenly reminds Sherlock of what he saw after getting up that morning. “Why were you in Mycroft’s room earlier? Didn’t you get your own?”

Peter’s steps falter for just a moment before he manages to right himself again. “You saw that, huh?”

Sherlock nods, turning around to walk backwards and keep looking at the man. “Did you have a sleepover?”

“Kind of, yes,” Peter grimaces and rubs a hand over his face. “But you should probably ask your brother about that.”

“About what?” Sherlock scrunches up his face in confusion. “What were you doing?”

“I really can’t say, Sherlock,” Peter sighs and almost trips over Sherlock when the boy stops abruptly.

“Why not? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Sherlock-“

“No,” Sherlock huffs and stalks away in a random direction, feeling stupid. Of course Peter won’t tell him. No one ever tells him anything.

He can hear Mummy and Father arguing with each other, he sees Mummy take pills and how she gets tired and withdrawn afterwards and he notices how Father stays abroad for much longer stretches at a time than he used to, but they always insist everything is just fine when Sherlock asks them about it.

They treat him like he’s an idiot and Sherlock hates it.

In his anger, Sherlock completely misses the root sticking out of the snow and finds himself lying flat on his front on the frozen ground before he quite knows what’s happening. His hand is throbbing and he finds a lazily bleeding scrape on the palm of it when he brings it up for inspection.

The injury isn’t serious, all things considered, but the tears come anyway, spilling down Sherlock’s cheeks in hot, heavy droplets, almost burning against his cool skin and, much to his mortification, he doesn’t appear to be able to stop them.

And then Peter is there and picking him up, his expression one of worry, and Sherlock throws his arms around the man’s neck, presses his face into his shoulder and cries. He’s faintly aware of Peter gently rocking him, rubbing his back and whispering calming nothings next to his ear.

What has Sherlock’s head snap up, however, is the feeling of Peter’s lips on his smarting hand, kissing the tender area around the graze. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the pain completely.

“Wha- what are yo- you doing?” Sherlock hiccups but doesn’t pull away, staring transfixed as Peter turns his hand over and presses another kiss to the back of it.

“Doesn’t your mum ever kiss your owies to make them better?” Peter asks and Sherlock, after scoffing a bit at the baby talk, shakes his head which causes Peter to still and frown. “Oh. Well, what does she do, then?”

“Call for Nanny to take care of it,” Sherlock answers honestly, puzzled when Peter’s face falls even further at that. So he adds, oddly reluctant to see Peter upset despite the fact the _he_ is the one who’s hurt and should be comforted, “Nanny used to be a nurse. She’s very good at treating small things.”

“That’s not-“ Peter begins, then cuts himself off and sighs. “And what does Nanny do? Does she, I don’t know, hug you or sing to you?”

_“Sing?”_ Sherlock’s eyes are wide and he’s fairly sure Peter’s gone completely barmy over the last few minutes. “Why would she sing?”

Peter doesn’t say anything, just looks incredibly sad, although Sherlock doesn’t really understand why. But it’s usually Sherlock’s fault when the people around him get angry or unhappy, so he offers, “Sometimes, when I wake up and can’t go back to sleep, Mycroft tells me silly stories to distract me.”

Storytelling isn’t singing, but he’s pretty sure Mycroft’s abysmal singing voice wouldn’t help anybody get better anyway.

“Oh, really? What kind of stories?” Peter sounds a little less concerned now, startling Sherlock by pushing his hands under his arms and lifting him up until he’s sitting on the man’s shoulders. He carefully takes Sherlock’s injured hand in his, brushing a steady thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, and guides the other one to his head and tells the boy to hold on tight before he starts walking back toward the mansion.

Sherlock curls his fingers into Peter’s hair and is secretly glad when Peter lifts his free hand to hold on to his ankle. He’s been clumsy quite enough for one day, the shame of falling again would surely make him combust.

“My favourite one is ‘Pirates Love Underpants’,” he tells the man while he enjoys the view from this new angle. “It’s _very_ silly.”

“Mind the branches,” Peter warns and Sherlock ducks the first one but pulls at the second, grinning madly when they’re both showered with snow. “Oi!” the man laughs, grabbing a handful of snow from his jacket and flicking it back up at the boy. “So, a story about pirates and pants, eh? How’s it go?”

“These pirates _so_ love underpants,” Sherlock recites dutifully, absently swinging his legs, “they’re on a special quest to find the fabled Pants Of Gold, for the Captain’s treasure chest.”

***

Mycroft is waiting for them in the drawing room reading the paper, the promised beverages steaming on tray by his side. He looks up when they step into the room, brows shooting up at Sherlock’s perched position before his eyes zero in on the bloody hand and he jumps up and quickly moves closer.

“What happened?” he demands and Sherlock winces, ashamedly lowering his gaze and flexing his fingers. He had all but forgotten about the pain between telling the story and stuffing snowballs down the back of Peter’s jumper.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and refuses to look at either man until Peter lifts him off and passes him over to Mycroft who cradles him close and lets Sherlock tuck his head under his chin.

“Hey, no,” Peter negates immediately and comes to stand beside them, starting to rub Sherlock’s back again. “You did nothing wrong, Sherlock, you fell. There’s no need to apologise, okay? Now, do you have a first aid kit somewhere?”

Mycroft directs him to the kitchen and then walks back to the sofa to sit down, waiting for Sherlock to curl up comfortably in his lap before he speaks again. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock holds out his hand for his brother to see and whispers, in something akin to wonder, “He kissed it better.”

Mycroft seems about as thrown as Sherlock was when it happened, but then he very gently raises Sherlock’s hand to his face and lightly, careful not to cause further discomfort, brushes his lips over the bruised part. “Like that?”

Sherlock nods, a pleasantly warm feeling spreading through his whole body as his brother’s arms close around him, and gives a happy little sigh when Mycroft rests his cheek on top of his head.

***

Christmas dinner goes much better than their disastrous first attempt at a meal two days ago.

Sherlock is allowed to sit between Mycroft and Peter after only throwing a tiny little tantrum and delights in the amount of attention that’s bestowed upon him this time around.

Mummy, once she emerged from her chambers shortly before five in the afternoon, had dark circles under her eyes and immediately started complaining about feeling under the weather. It’s what she always claims when she forgets her pills or takes too many of them or drinks a lot of the special adult drink. Sherlock tried it once and doesn’t get what all the fuzz is about, it was bitter and made his eyes water.

But Mummy ‘feeling under the weather’ is Sherlock’s favourite version of Mummy, even if he sometimes feels guilty about it, knowing she isn’t well. The thing is, though, that Mummy doesn’t snap at him or hit him or do much of anything in this state, so he’s free to do as he pleases without having to fear her unpredictable temper.

Meaning Sherlock spends the entire course of the meal telling Mycroft about all the things he and Peter found in the forest after Mycroft’s departure and what he intends to do with them. He asks again about the room sharing, causing Mycroft to choke on a sip of wine and shoot a panicked glance over at Mummy, only relaxing when it becomes clear she’s already taken her evening dose of medicine and is somewhere far away with her thoughts, nursing a glass of dark amber liquid.

They have dessert in the sitting room by the fire and it isn’t long before Mummy excuses herself and vanishes back upstairs. Which leaves Sherlock alone with Mycroft and Peter and wholly unsure as to what the plans for the rest of the evening are.

Normally, he and Mycroft would start with the preparations for their sleepover, but Sherlock gets the sinking feeling that won’t happen this year with Mycroft’s guest around. He must look pretty gloomy because it isn’t long before Peter, who sits in the armchair facing Sherlock’s, notices his mood and stops mid-sentence.

“Sherlock,” he begins, his smile not so much of a surprise anymore by now yet still slightly bewildering to the boy. “Mycroft tells me we’re staying up to wait for Father Christmas, yeah?”

Sherlock gives a reluctant nod, trying to ascertain if the man is teasing him about it like some of the older children at school, but he can’t find any signs of dishonesty.

“Are we laying out biscuits?” he wants to know then and is shocked when the brothers admit they don’t know how to make them and always used store bought ones. He insists it’s easy and drags them through to the kitchen, explaining their quest to an enthusiastic Cook who helps search for all the ingredients before retiring for the night.

They end up making several different kinds and Peter is entirely unimpressed by Mycroft’s refusal to participate, punishing by throwing a hand of flour right into his face which quickly escalates into a lot of screaming, giggling and foodstuffs being used for distinctively non-culinary purposes.

Once they’re finished and the biscuits are in the oven, Sherlock’s hair is sticky with sugar, Mycroft is more batter than human and Peter is grinning at them both with his chocolate-covered face.

It is decided that some freshening-up is in order before they meet back in sitting room again to build a blanket fort. Sherlock is delighted by that suggestions and hurries off to wash himself without being difficult about getting wet for once.

The sofa turns out to be the perfect foundation, so they hang blankets over it and the desk, a few of the chairs and the coffee table, leaving an opening that faces the huge Christmas tree and fireplace so Sherlock can keep his eyes on them.

Peter goes to fetch the biscuits and four glasses of milk, putting one of them and a few of the biscuits next to the tree for Father Christmas before they take the rest and crawl into their fort. They stuffed it full of pillows and some additional blankets, making it extra cosy. Sherlock lies down between the two men who take turns telling scary stories, on the boy’s insistence, until Sherlock starts to nod off.

***

Quietly murmuring voices pull Sherlock back to consciousness some time later, but he’s too sleepy and comfortable to wake up properly, choosing instead to keep his eyes shut and continue drifting.

“He didn’t even realise what I was doing, Mike,” whispers Peter, sounding upset again. “I don’t know, I just think it’s kind of tragic.”

Sherlock can feel Mycroft shift next to him, his body tense. “What do you expect me to do about it? We’re not an affectionate sort of family.”

Peter snorts. “Yeah, no shit? I couldn’t tell.”

“I’m doing my best, you know,” Mycroft sighs. “It’s hard. I didn’t have the best of role models myself in that regard. I’m mostly making things up as I go. And Sherlock, he’s...” he trails off there and sighs again.

“He’s amazing, is what he is,” Peter says forcefully and Sherlock has to make an effort to keep silent and stay still. He desperately wants to hear the rest of this, it’s about him after all, but he’s afraid they’ll stop talking once they notice him no longer being asleep. “He’s special and so, _so_ clever, Mike, seriously. What’s going on around here, he doesn’t deserve any of it. Your mum hit him, for fuck’s sake! Right in front of me, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“She’s having difficulties-“

“That shouldn’t matter!” Peter snaps and Mycroft shushes him, one of his hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s neck. “You don’t hit your children, full stop. He didn’t do anything wrong, she punished him for being curious and excited. Do you even realise what that’s going to do to him over time?”

“Why do you think I turned out the way I did?” Mycroft hisses angrily, causing Peter to fall quiet for several long minutes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s fine,” Mycroft says through a deep, calming breath.

“You know,” Peter continues, his voice changed now, full of mirth and a bit of mischief. “You’re kind of amazing yourself.”

Mycroft gives a surprised laugh before he clasps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. “Shut up.”

They’re both moving now and Sherlock takes his chances, opening one eye halfway. His face is about the same height as Mycroft’s belly and he can see one of Peter’s hands sprawled across Mycroft’s hip, two of his fingers creeping up and under his sleep shirt.

There is no more talking, it has been replaced by the rustling of clothes as well as a wet kind of sound Sherlock can’t identify. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Sherlock opens his eyes, looks up and freezes.

Mycroft is tenderly cupping Peter’s jaw with one hand, using the other to hold himself up and lean over Sherlock’s curled up form. His mouth is on Peter’s and it’s open and Sherlock is fairly sure that Peter’s is, too.

He must have made some sort of noise at the sight, because suddenly they’re jumping apart and Mycroft’s wide eyes fix on him while Peter curses rather colourfully.

“Sherlock-“ Mycroft tries, his voice hoarse and deep and desperate, but Sherlock shakes his head and flees.

***

There’s a soft knock on his closet door, followed by a quiet, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock ignores Peter, having used up all his energy to shout when Mycroft tried talking to him earlier, still much too angry to listen, feeling too betrayed to care about his brother’s apologies.

He’d been shocked to catch Mycroft kissing another person, shocked and a little disgusted by the amount of tongue involved. It’s utterly mystifying to the boy why anyone would choose to engage in such activities, willingly exchanging saliva and all sorts of other icky substances with someone else seems, well, unsanitary. Sherlock would never have expected his prim and proper brother to enjoy any of that.

It wouldn’t be as much of a problem if Mycroft had only told him, Sherlock thinks. Before he went away to university, they used to share everything with each other, being each other’s most important confidants. And Mycroft promised that wouldn’t change once he left, but that’s the thing with promises; they can be broken.

The phone calls dropped from three or four a week to one every other weekend. Granted, Mycroft was probably busy studying and always appeared to be genuinely delighted to see Sherlock when he visited, but that didn’t keep him from going in the first place and leaving Sherlock alone in a house where he is about as welcome as a sewer rat.

Which isn’t entirely fair, Sherlock realises that. It isn’t Mycroft’s fault that Father is almost never around and dismissive or uninterested on the few occasions he is. Mycroft isn’t the one who made Mummy sick and dependant on those pills that leave her either indifferent or irritated and violent. But Mycroft is the only one Sherlock has and he isn’t doing anything to change things and that isn’t fair. Not at all.

“Sherlock? Look, I realise I’m probably the last person you want to talk to right now, but could you at least yell at me to let me now you’re still alive? I’m kind of worried out here.”

Sherlock is still sulking, though, and keeps quiet.

Peter sighs and there’s a dull thud when he lets his head drop against the closet. “I get that it might have been a shock to see your brother kissing another man and I don’t really know what to tell you about that other than that I like him very, very much.”

Sherlock hears another body lower itself to the floor somewhere close by and is strangely comforted by Mycroft’s presence, although he’s still furious with him.

“He isn’t angry about the fact that you’re male,” Mycroft interjects gently. “It’s because I didn’t tell him, because I left him out. Which I’m sorry about, Lockie.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” Sherlock demands, flicking the sash of his bathrobe hanging down in front of him in the semi-dark.

There’s a short pause and then, “Because I was afraid.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock hisses, confused.

“Sherlock, do you remember Uncle Cyrus?” Mycroft asks, his voice tight. “Uncle Cyrus and his friend, Gabriel?”

Sherlock does, vaguely. Uncle Cyrus is Father’s brother, but they never got along. The situation escalated when Uncle Cyrus brought his friend, Gabriel, with him for a visit last spring. Father had shouted at him about not wanting ‘their sort’ in his house, about having ‘tolerated this nonsense long enough’. Uncle Cyrus had called him a narrow-minded, bigoted piece of shite in return, Sherlock remembers that very clearly because it was the first time he'd ever heard one of the adults curse. Uncle Cyrus stopped coming by after that.

“Sherlock?”

“What does ‘bigoted’ mean?”

Peter lets out a shaky breath and Mycroft swallows hard. “It means being intolerant of any ideas other than one’s own, for example about sexuality.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispers as the pieces fall into place. “But I don’t mind, My, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me if you _like_ like Peter.”

Mycroft laughs shakily. “I know that, but it’s good to hear it out loud. Thank you.”

“Yeah, thank you, Sherlock,” Peter adds and he sounds like he’s smiling again.

But Sherlock isn’t about to give up. “So why didn’t you tell me? If you knew I wouldn’t care, why didn’t you-“ he breaks off abruptly, growing angry again. “You thought I would tell Father, didn’t you?”

“Not on purpose-“

“I wouldn’t have said anything!” Sherlock yells and kicks open the door to glare at his brother. “I’ve always kept your secrets. You could have trusted me!”

“Sherlock-“

“Is that why you stopped coming home and calling? Because you thought I’d tell Father? Or was it because of him?” Sherlock snarls, pointing a trembling finger at Peter. “Because you like him more? Because you found someone else you like and can spend time with and have no more reason to come back here where everyone is always mad and mean and everything is terrible and-“

The rest of Sherlock’s rant dies off when the tears start flowing and Mycroft crawls over to him, reaching right into the closet to pull Sherlock out and into his lap.

“No, Sherlock, no,” he chokes out, running shaking hands over the boy’s back. “Don’t think like that, don’t ever think like that. You are everything to me, Sherlock, absolutely everything. I love you, more than anything. And I’m sorry, so sorry. I’m trying my best to get you out, to get you away from here. But there are legal issues, I can’t-“

“Hey,” comes Peter’s voice again and Sherlock is startled to realise Mycroft is crying as well. Peter curls his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and tugs him close, sandwiching Sherlock between the two of them. Sherlock fists one hand in Peter’s trousers and holds on, suddenly reluctant to have either man leave. “Hey, Mike, come on. You’re fine, you’re both fine. Hush, now,” he shushes and kisses first Mycroft, then the top of Sherlock’s head.

“I’m sorry, Mikey,” Sherlock wails, not sure what he’s apologising for but wanting everything to stop and go back like it was when they were baking or building their fort or telling stories. “I’m sorry.”

They sit there tangled together for what feels like an eternity before Peter nudges Mycroft to stand and lifts the cried-out, pliant Sherlock up into his arms. Sherlock rests his head on Peter’s shoulder and watches as he takes Mycroft’s hand in his, leading them down to the sitting room where they crawl back into their fort.

No one speaks as they settle down, Mycroft holding Sherlock against his chest and Peter spooned up behind Mycroft, one arm slung over him with his hand on Sherlock’s back. Someone pulls one of the blankets up over them, Sherlock is too exhausted to care who it is.

The only sound is their breathing, the only light the electric candles from the tree, the only movement the twitches in Mycroft’s arm around his shoulders and Peter’s hand rubbing his back. 

And for the first time in a very long time, and despite all the drama and fighting and things that aren’t even remotely resolved yet, Sherlock drifts off to sleep feeling perfectly content.

***

Mycroft got him a new microscope, a real one this time, and Sherlock is beside himself with joy. There are other presents, a bunch of clothes from Mummy he highly suspects she didn’t pick out herself, money from Father and French sweets from Grand-Père and Grand-Mère, but none are as perfect as what his brother bought for him.

He’s been chanting ‘thank you' and bouncing around the room for the last five minutes, the only thing keeping him from trying out his present right now being Mycroft’s insistence that Cook prepared breakfast and they should eat before it gets cold.

Sherlock is practically inhaling his left-over turkey and it takes him a moment to notice the envelope Peter is sliding across the table toward him. Once he does, though, he frowns down at. “Whaa’ ish ‘tis?”

Mycroft grimaces. “Don’t speak with your mouth full,” he chides, so Sherlock opens his mouth and shows him the mush of half-chewed food, smirking at his brother’s disgusted look.

“Lovely,” Peter snorts and taps the envelope. “It’s my Christmas present to you. It was a little hard to decide on something since my coming here was somewhat short notice and I didn’t know you very well when I chose it. Not even your brother knows what it is,” he whispers conspiratorially and winks, making Sherlock grin even wider and Mycroft roll his eyes at them.

Peter turns to face Mycroft, his eyes glittering impishly. “I think you’ll like it, too. After everything you told me about your home life,” he says and winces apologetically, “and that little adorable whirlwind over there, I realised this was perfect.”

Sherlock grunts disapprovingly at the nickname, but is too busy tearing open the envelope to pout properly. He glances up to see Mycroft looking intrigued which only makes this even better, his know-it all brother actually not knowing something for once.

He turns the envelope over and shakes loose a piece of paper.

“What is it?” Mycroft urges impatiently, scoffing when Peter grins at him and presses a quick kiss to his temple.

“It’s a flat,” Sherlock says hesitantly, looking at Peter uncomprehendingly. “A purchase contract.”

Mycroft seems equally confused, going by his uncharacteristically ineloquent, “What?”

Peter, though, just beams at them both. “It’s an early graduation present from my parents. And I thought,” he sing-songs, reaching into his pocket and producing a small box he places in front of Mycroft. “That you might want to share.”

Sherlock’s stomach clenches painfully at the thought of Mycroft having his own home, with his boyfriend, far away from here, far away from Sherlock-

“And,” Peter goes on, focussing back on Sherlock and pointing at the sheet of paper the boy is still clutching. “That is a promise to you, Sherlock. That you’re always welcome in what I hope will soon be _our_ home.”

Mycroft’s mouth is hanging open almost comically, but Sherlock is too busy climbing over the table to relish the rare treat of seeing his brother completely gobsmacked. And his expression only grows impossibly more ridiculous when Sherlock more or less tackles Peter and nearly topples them both over in his haste.

“Thank you,” Sherlock sniffles and doesn’t even care that he’s crying again, winding his arms around Peter and squeezing as hard as he can manage.

“You’re very welcome,” Peter chuckles and then they do actually fall over when Mycroft throws himself into the mix, kissing Peter’s lips and cheeks and whatever he can reach of Sherlock’s face.

It’s all a bit nasty and wet and more than a little mad and Peter is laughing and Sherlock thinks Mycroft is giggle-crying and it’s _perfect_.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Cook sings for Sherlock is a real Italian nursery rhyme and you can find the translation [here](http://www.mamalisa.com/?lang=Sicilian_Dialect&t=es&p=2894). The pirate story Sherlock tells Peter is also from a real [book](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17334406-pirates-love-underpants) which is super cute and silly.
> 
> If you liked this story, please go and check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works) or come over and join me in the madness that is [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com/).


End file.
